by Meyer, Tim
Something crashed against the window. Dana screamed, tears streaming down her face. Sam nearly hopped out of the driver's seat, his ass lifting a good inch off the leather. Quickly, he turned to see Jenny. Sponge-Bob protected her head. She sobbed uncontrollably. Mouthing the words, “Help me,” she tapped the glass. “I can feel it inside me,” she whimpered.
“Go to the passenger's side!” Sam shouted.
She scurried to the other side of the Jeep unscathed. Slamming the door behind her, she hunched into a ball, draping the towel over her, covering every inch of skin.
“You're okay now,” Sam said, rubbing her shoulder. He turned, looking into the backseat. “We all are,” he said, although he hardly knew if that were true.
-7-
GAMMOUTH, NEW JERSEY/ 11:06 AM
Beatrice Allen was mowing the front lawn—something her out-of-work husband was supposed to do—when she noticed something strange out the corner of her eye. Little Henry Townsend from across the street was running around his front lawn, slapping himself wildly, as if he had disturbed a wasps' nest. He started crying, rubbing his face vigorously. Beatrice killed the mower, cupped her hands around her mouth, and asked poor Henry if he was okay.
The kid shrieked. Beatrice sprinted across the front lawn, into the street. She got to the Townsend's property when she noticed something horribly wrong with Henry's face. He was sweating, only it wasn't perspiration running down his cheeks; it was dribbles of flesh, oozing off his body, dripping to the grassy surface below. Rushing to the boy's aid, Beatrice let out a terrified utterance of her own.
Before she reached him, Henry combusted spontaneously. Hellfire swallowed the kid whom Beatrice was actually quite fond of, in a motherly sort of way.
As the kid stood on his front lawn like a burning monk, Beatrice felt her neck become unusually hot. Sweat poured down her back, into the crack of her ass. It was heated. Scalding. Before she ignited, Beatrice screeched like a hungry gull.
-8-
LONDON, ENGLAND/ 4:48 AM
Martin Brower hopped off the bus just as he did every weekday morning around five. Today was different. Or at least he hoped it would be.
Rushing to the center of town, he couldn't control his excitement. He glanced down at his watch. Only three minutes late, not terrible. He quickened his pace. Maybe she won't cut off my ball-bag, after all.
He turned a corner, spotting the magnificent fountain where they had held their first kiss. Tucking the flowers beneath his arm, he scanned the area for Anne, expecting to see her leaning against the rail, arms tucked beneath her tiny breasts, her foot twitching with anticipation. Instead, only a few pigeons fluttered around the area. Couples sat at tiny tables, enjoying tea and an early breakfast (or really late dinner), laughing amongst themselves. Soothing music quietly played from inside a coffee shop.
Once he reached the fountain, he glanced around anxiously. No sign of Anne. Weird, she's not one to be late. He reached inside his pocket and grabbed the small jewelry box. He opened it, setting his eyes on the sparkling rock inside. It's perfect. Just like Anne. He smiled while playing out the day's events in his mind. Things were going to go off without a hitch, so his gut told him.
On the other side of the fountain, someone screamed. Martin glanced through the water and saw a group of people rush toward a fallen woman. Anne? he wondered, pocketing the ring. He scurried around the fountain, keeping his eye on the gathering crowd. Not Anne. Please not be Anne. He was relieved when he saw the woman had different color hair than his future wife.
Martin watched with morbid fascination as the woman convulsed. She was screaming, clawing at her neck and face. I wonder who her dealer is, Martin thought, internally chuckling. The woman grew more violent as time passed, eventually attacking the people who had come to her aid.
“Get away from me!” she yelled. The people did as she commanded, although some were laughing, thinking maybe it was all an elaborate hoax.
Martin chortled to himself, thinking the same thing, then continued to scan the area for Anne.
No luck.
Come on, baby. Don't stand me up. Not today.
Screams suddenly surrounded him. He didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. Everything sped up. People started falling in the streets, as if the earth were a carpet yanked from under them. Martin watched them squirm on the ground, rolling as if they had caught fire.
He saw no flames.
The back of his neck grew hot. Something crawled beneath his skin. It felt the same as nicotine withdrawals, which was silly, because Martin had quit years ago.
“Martin?” a sweet voice asked from behind him. “Martin, what's happening to me?”
He turned and saw his true love, only it barely resembled Anne. Her face was distorted, as if someone had taken a blowtorch to her facial features. One of her eyes hung from its socket. She screamed as her flesh bubbled, warping beneath the blazing, morning sun.
Martin ran to her, but he only took a few steps before his legs gave out. He listened to the sound of his own flesh baking while the world slowly brightened into nothingness.
-9-
HARPER'S FERRY, NORTH CAROLINA/ 11:45 AM
Brandon Towers and his father were finally finished packing. They surveyed the collection of cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and black trash bags containing their personal possessions. Bill Towers was doing one final sweep of the house before hauling everything outside and into the moving truck, being very adamant about this process.
“We get it all into the living room first, then we move everything outside; none of this back-and-forth-throughout-the-house-eighty-times nonsense,” he told Brandon.
Brandon was pretty bummed about the whole thing. He like the house they were living in; he was about to put the finishing touches on a basement studio where his punk-rock band could play. His would-have-been future stepmother wasn't half-bad either, until she broke his father's heart. Bill's fiancée had broken off the engagement seventeen days before the wedding—seventeen fucking days. At least she was kind enough to vacate the house for the day while they moved out. “So thoughtful,” his father would say sarcastically, followed by an optimistic, albeit forced, “onto bigger and better, eh, buddy?”
Brandon tried cheering him up that morning with no success. Determined to turn his mood around, he jokingly offered to help make his father a profile on one of those dating sites. Then, he suggested setting him up with one of his schoolteachers, the hot one, the one all the guys drooled over. Bill took it all in stride, although remaining depressed.
The truck was nearly packed, the workload taking its toll on both of them. They emerged from the house drenched in sweat.
“You had to pick the hottest day of the year to move?” Brandon said, fanning himself with both hands.
“We're losing the shade,” Bill said. “Let me make sure the breakables are tied down, then we'll get going.”
Brandon saw an opportunity to play a little joke on his old man. Maybe that's what he needed to lift his pops out of his miserable state. He waited until Bill reached the back of the truck before quickly pulling down the gate and latching it shut. Bill felt himself immediately lose his cool, but, like everything else, he let it go.
“You're such a little punk, Brandon! If it wasn't against the law, I'd beat your ass with a shoe until it turned purple!” It was like a sauna in there, and after a few minutes, the harmless little prank was no longer amusing. “Alright, buddy. Seriously. It's hotter than hell in here. Lemme out.”
Brandon didn't respond. Bill felt his flesh grow hot, the temperature rising with his anger. He started pounding his fist against the door and screaming for Brandon to open it up. He yelled until he went hoarse, beating his balled fist until it was nearly broken.
Outside, Brandon's body lay in a crumpled, kindling black pile.
-10-
HOLLYWOOD, FLORIDA/ SUNRISE
Brian and Katie were reunited at last. It was the “movie moment”
in Katie's life, the one she never thought would happen—one of those scenes that only unfolded in Reese Witherspoon films. They'd been together for seven years. She saw Brian through the worst of his addiction. But there came a time when Brian's problems and Katie's willingness to deal with them were at their respective peaks. Katie had to cut him loose.
It had been an ugly scene; packing her things and trying to leave his—well, really their—house; him on his knees begging her to stay, eventually threatening to kill himself if she didn't. Words were said that they both regretted. Amidst the yelling and crying, Katie was desperately trying to remember everything that belonged to her. She didn't realize it until now, but she had been mentally planning this exodus for a long time. That's what happens when you live with an addict though. All the broken promises and bold-faced lies give you the motivation to want to escape, and the nights spent waiting at home during mysterious late-night cigarette runs or watching them nod out on the couch give you the time to plan it.
But she still loved him. Though they were fewer and farther between, she still caught glimpses of the “real Brian” underneath the fog of the drugs. When she did, her heart sung and sank. After leaving him that day, months went by while she tried to move on. Katie had heard about Brian going to rehab and was happy for him. She was happy for herself, too. She began to accept that maybe this was how it was supposed to be, that they'd both move on and be better for it.
Then the letter came.
Reading it made her heart melt. She wept tears with every emotion her mind could perceive. The letter explained everything. It answered so many of her questions, confirmed the doubts she had, and even offered a little hope. Brian took responsibility for all the bullshit he had put her through, confessing to all the lies. He explained why he did what he did. More importantly, he didn't ask for anything in return. He said he wanted to give her some closure and clear his conscience, selfish though the latter may have been. He explained that he never stopped loving her, but that getting clean had been for himself and must continue to be. I have to take it one day at a time, it read, and not project too far into the future. But I won't lie to you, Katie, I hope you're a part of it.
She tried to quiet her beating heart, quell her rising hope. But alas, her love was rekindled. In the letter, Brian mentioned that he'd finally stopped sleeping to noon, that he actually enjoyed waking up early and enjoying the day. He'd been going to Charnow Park every morning to watch the sunrise, and she suddenly knew she wanted to watch one with him. Katie surprised him, showing in the fading darkness. They ran to each other, collapsing into each other's arms. They cried hard, speaking words of love and forgiveness. Katie sat with Brian's arm around her, eagerly awaiting the dawn of their new life.
They kissed as the sun peeked over the horizon, slowly roasting and blending them together in a smoldering embrace.
-11-
AFGAN BORDER/0600 HOURS/NEXT DAY
With news of something terrible happening in the homeland, Ranger Davidson entered the drop zone wondering if his wife and baby were going to be okay. Having these thoughts on his mind wasn't recommended before descending into hostile territory, but he couldn't ignore the reports coming out of New York, Washington, and Atlanta. Even California was reporting “incidents.” There were unconfirmed reports coming out of the UK, as well as China. Something bad was happening out there, whether it was some natural disaster or form of terrorism was still to be determined. And where was Hal Davidson?
Stuck in this fucking hellhole of a country, that's where.
As soon as Davidson's feet hit the sandy terrain, he took off down the street, following his platoon, taking cover. The dim street was being lit up by gunfire. Davidson tucked himself behind a building, waiting for the signal to return the hostiles' welcoming fireworks.
He glanced up at the sky, a crack of light hovering above the horizon. Dawn would be here before they knew it, and the advantage the darkness gave them would soon be lost. Their original orders were supposed to be carried out hours ago, but new Intel suggested they waited until the early morning. Apparently, their target would be more accessible. Intel. Fuck them, Davidson thought. Their new orders were more likely to get them killed.
Davidson peeked around the building, watching Jeffreys take out one of the hostiles. The heavily-garbed man fell to the earth, a trail of crimson leaking from his face, his brains thrown into the air like confetti. Although he played the tough-guy persona well, Davidson hated the sight of blood. Even thinking about it made him cringe. Sometimes, ketchup made him nauseas. Strawberry syrup. Ragu. Only sometimes, and these were things he kept to himself.
As he received direction from his superior, Davidson sprinted down the street, seeking refuge behind an abandoned fruit stand. Bullets whizzed by him, kicking up dirt clouds. He blindly fired in the direction of the enemy. He heard screaming and thought maybe his bullets were true. Glancing up, he saw his fellow soldiers writhing around in the middle of the street. Oh shit! he thought. I fucking shot my own men! He saw Jeffreys crawling, seeking cover. Jeffreys was the toughest son of a bitch he knew (the man shaved with a hunting knife for Christ's sakes), yet he was screaming like a little girl who had broken her favorite Barbie.
“Jeffreys!” Davidson ran into the middle of the street, mindful that some insurgents were still lurking in their homes with automatic weaponry. He shuffled past a few corpses, averting his eyes from their bloodied bodies.
Kneeling next to his buddy, Davidson put his hand on Jeffreys's shoulder. Steam rose off his blistering flesh. What the fuck?
“Jeffreys!” Davidson screamed. “What the hell is wrong with you, soldier?”
Jeffreys flipped over, staring at Davidson, his face frozen in absolute horror. Patches of skin were missing on his cheeks, revealing a white, watery layer of flesh. Goo ran down his face like tears. Jeffreys screamed, yelling something about being on fire. Davidson tried calming him, telling him that he was okay, that he needed to take it easy. Jeffreys pointed over Davidson's shoulder, his finger trembling rapidly. Turning around, Davidson drew his weapon, ready to pull the trigger on what he assumed to be a hostile with a bomb strapped to his chest.
But there was no one. No suicidal bombers. No insurgents. Not even a newspaper floating in the morning breeze. There was nothing. Except the sandy streets, houses, and the bright morning sun that peered over the horizon like the Eye of God looking over His creation.
The sun.
Davidson never would have guessed that to be the enemy. But Jeffreys knew it. He knew it well.
Hal Davidson watched Jeffreys's fingertip become a flame, along with the rest of his hand. Seconds later, he watched his own body burn.
-12-
San Francisco, California/ 9:35 A.M.
Not even the cool darkness of the narrow alleyway could keep the sweat from streaming down his forehead. He dabbed his thin face with the soiled cloth he'd pulled from the dumpster shared by the pizzeria and the Chinese take-out place. The months of unchecked filth mixed with the many days worth of grease, soaking into the towel's fibers. He thought of walking to the churches near Gough Street, but the extreme heat had brought on a weakness not even the generosity of pastors could overcome. It was too hot to seek out such kindness, even if it meant air-conditioning and clean linens.
Stuffing the cloth into his back pocket, he gazed at the busy street. Many pedestrians took shelter under store front awnings, while others continued on underneath the cover of their umbrellas. No one, however, joined him in the limited refuge of the alley's shadows. One by one he watched people pass by without a second glance. He would have shared the alley's shade had they asked. There was no reason to be selfish, especially on a sweltering day like this one. In these times, a little bit of selflessness goes a long way. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the brick wall. If only he had thought of that sooner. Then maybe he'd be relying on himself rather than the incidental benevolence of others.
At first, he was startled by the u
nexpected tugging at his pant leg, until he saw the animal at his feet. The German Shepherd gnawed his boot laces, playfully barking at him to join in the fun. Judging by the dog's gentle teething and slender frame, he was too old to be considered a puppy, but still very young. He reached out to pet the dog, who welcomed the attention.
“Sorry about that, buddy,” said the kid standing on the sidewalk. “No matter what I do, he just won't wear his leash.”
“Don't worry about it,” he said, guiding the dog towards his owner.
The kid nodded, taking a firm grip of the dog's collar. “Stop running away on me.”
They started walking off into the bright, sun-soaked city, the German Shepherd panting heavily and the kid joining right along with him. A blanket of heat haze blurred the shop signs across the street, save the blue flashing neon lights hanging in the convenience store window. Letter-by-letter and then word-by-word it flashed, “ICE COLD DRINKS,” over and over again. The kid looked at the store, then at his dog before turning to the stranger in the alley.
“Would you mind watching my dog while I run over and grab something to drink?” he asked.
“Me?” the man said.
“Yeah. I'll only be a couple of minutes.”
He tried to find the politest way to decline, but something in his mind about a little selflessness goes a long way prevented him from saying anything at all.
“Look,” the kid said, pausing to read the blue stitching on the man's worn and wrinkled shirt, “Thomas, it looks like you could use something to drink, too. I'll buy you the biggest Coke they got. Just make sure he doesn't get hit by a car or anything.”
“All right,” he said, motioning for the kid to send the dog over, “and it's just 'Tom.'”